wish upon a star
by midnightluck
Summary: Jade grows up. It isn't pretty.


_______All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners (Cartoon Network). Poem is by me. _

_______For a prompt on the YJ_Anon_Meme.  
_

**WARNINGS**: grimdark like whoa. By which I mean, **underage**, **neglect**, **abuse**, **rape** and **incest**.

* * *

_I used to wish upon a star,_  
_I daren't anymore._  
_Instead I lay me down to sleep_  
_With nightmares at my door._

* * *

She's been sitting in the corner all day, trying to shrink down to nothing. Maybe it's working; Mommy doesn't see her. But then, Mommy never does, and she's not hiding from Mommy, she's hiding from—

"There you are." A hand as rough as his voice lands on her head. "Come on, baby, time to learn."

She hates learning, but it'll hurt more if she doesn't go.

So she follows him outside, and he gives her toys, toys with sharp edges that draw fears and blood. Toys that she handles with the ease of practice and familiarity.

"Fight me," he says, and she comes at him with little fists and littler strategy, simultaneously afraid to hit him, and desperate to.

"Fight me," he says, and she throws knives and shurikens and watches them fall to the floor, yards away from the target.

"Fight me," he says, and throws a punch that she doesn't see coming, one that knocks her down and back.

And when she drags her little self up, panting and bruised, but not broken, she's met with a smile that's not nice and a "Good," that isn't meant.

It hurts by the time she's allowed to stop, but not as much as it hurts when she says no.

And at night, she clutches her bear to her chest, the only toy she has without sharp edges. She hugs it close and wants to tell it everything that makes her sad, but she doesn't dare risk that someone might hear.

Because he'll sneak into her room, not tonight, but maybe sometime later, to give her pop quizzes, where he rests his hand over her mouth and pins both her delicate wrists with his massive hand, and, voice heavy with darkness and drink, he'll whisper in her ear, "Fight me."

And she'll _try._

* * *

_I wish that I could make it stop_  
_But I don't know how to fight_  
_Best I can do is hide and hope_  
_That they don't come tonight._

* * *

She grows up and gets taller, but she doesn't learn much about the world. He's still in charge of her "school," and Mom still can't be bothered to listen. And she daren't say anything to Mom, or her teddy, or anyone, because it might get around—_would_ get around to him, and then—

She comes at him with cool anger, now, ice in her veins as she whips her toys through the air, and spends time coming up with concoctions—learning Mom's _cooking_—in hopes of putting him down for a long while. Because if she knocks him out now, he can't put a rough hand over her face later, can't pin her and keep her quiet, can't say, "Fight me."

Can't say, "Shhh, you'll wake your mother."

Can't slide a finger up into her, can't touch her _there_, can't make her body shiver and shake, can't be gentle with his hands and harsh with his words.

Can't escalate.

Can't say, "Weak, so weak and pathetic, can't even stop me."

Because she tries, she really does, and the worst part is the next morning, when he fails her and punishes her for not fighting hard enough.

She can't win, and it's taken her a while to realize that maybe, when he tears her nightshirt and the shorts she'd worn to bed in a futile attempt to stop him—maybe this isn't healthy.

It's not like she's ever had a different life to compare it to.

But she has a reason to stay, to stay quiet, because now she's got someone to protect, a reason to hope. Artemis is bright and shining and so pretty, with her golden hair and silver dreams.

Artemis is not tarnished, not dirty, not broken, not yet.

So she makes sure, on those nights she's come to be able to predict, she makes sure that she's near the door, the first to be seen. She makes sure Artemis sleeps heavily, and doesn't know. She makes _sure_.

Because Artemis should never have to—

_"Fight me," he says_

—never have to learn to fight.

It hurts, but it only hurts her body. She can live with that. She's used to it.

But when she's older and pretty, when she sees the light in his eyes as he looks at a woman instead of his daughter, she gets itchy. She keeps a treated dagger under her pillow, but he's expecting that, he's wearing his mask, and he—

_"Fight me."_

—and she wakes up early in the morning, to hide the blood-stained sheets.

It's the day Mom is arrested, and she feels so dirty, so used, and she's finally, finally, been broken.

"I can't live in this house with just him," she says, swallowing bile. She can't, she _can't_, she can't afford to break any more.

"You and him and _me_!" Artemis says, and yes, she knows, oh god but she knows, knows what leaving might mean for her baby sister. Her pure, golden, glowing-with-good-intent baby sister.

So she leaves Artemis her old teddy and a poisoned kunai under her pillow, kisses her hair one last time, and says, "Just remember—fight, okay?"

"Fight?" her younger sister (god, so young) asks, confused, and she hopes that Artemis never understands, ever.

"Yeah. It hurts less that way." And she's a coward, but she can't take it, can't break anymore, so she runs, and runs, and runs, and prays.

"I'm sorry," she whispers to the starlight, hoping it'll carry the words back home.

Back to Artemis, all alone with _him_.

* * *

_So dreaming light and dreaming bright,_  
_First dream that I dream tonight_  
_I wish I may, I wish I might,_  
_At very least, survive the night._

* * *

Artemis wakes up, hair in her eyes and a hand over her mouth, and she can't breathe, and there's pressure on her chest and—

"Fight me," he whispers, and she _tries_.


End file.
